If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?
'Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressèd, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,—
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
and pleasure torn!
But, O, a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!"
WHEN with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
open breast, when Titan spreads his rays; How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk; How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, Bedewed as 't were with tears, till he returns ;
And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,
As if she scornèd to be lookèd on
By an inferior eye, or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him : —
When I thus meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples, to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow.
But, O my God! though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and have a rooting here,
Which hauls me downward, yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire,
And all my best affections I profess
To Him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
O, keep the morning of his incarnation,
The burning noontide of his bitter passion,
The night of his descending, and the height
Of his ascension, ever in my sight;
That, imitating him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way!
HEARTS of eternity, — hearts of the deep!
Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate,
How that for you no living comes too late;
How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep ;
How ye great harvests from small surface reap;—
Shout, excellent band, in grand, primeval strain,
Like midnight winds that foam along the main,
And do all things rather than pause and weep.
A human heart knows naught of littleness,
Suspects no man, compares with no one's ways,
Hath in one hour most glorious length of days,
A recompense, a joy, a loveliness;
Like eaglet keen, shoots into azure far,
And, always dwelling nigh, is the remotest star.
LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood, -
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past; and man forgot.
LORD, with what care hast thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers
Pulpits and Sundays; sorrow dogging sin;
Afflictions sorted; anguish of all sizes;
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in;
Bibles laid open; millions of surprises;
Blessings beforehand; ties of gratefulness;
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace; eternal hopes and fears; -
Yet all these fences, and their whole array,
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
OUT, palsied soul, that dost but tremble ever
In sight of the bright sunshine; - mine be joy,
And the full heart, and the eye that faileth never
In the glad morning! I am yet a boy;
I have not wandered from the crystal river
That flowed by me in childhood: my employ
Hath been to take the gift, and praise the Giver;
To love the flowers thy heedless steps destroy.
I wonder if the bliss that flows to me
In youth shall be exhaled and scorched up dry
By the noonday glare of life: I must not lie
For ever in the shade of childhood's tree:
But I must venture forth, and make advance
Along the toilèd path of human circumstance.
HEART of the people! working men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy backs sustain,
Through streaming time, this world of ours;
Hold by that title, which proclaims
That ye are undismayed and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims
May to the sons of earth belong.
Yet not on you alone depend
These offices, or burdens fall;
Labor, for some or other end,
Is lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed
Must meet the morn with horse and hound,
While Industry for daily bread
Pursues afresh his wonted round.
With all his pomp of pleasure, he
Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy, —
When, as ye labor to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.
But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sign of vigor overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!
And he who still and silent sits
In closed room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book :
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